Chapter 2

For three years, I lived in that penthouse. But it wasn't a home. It was a cage.

The shock collar was my leash. Sarah had programmed it to the penthouse's perimeter. If I even got close to the elevator or the main door, a warning beep would sound. If I took one more step, the electricity would drop me to my knees, my body convulsing on the plush carpet until she decided to turn it off. I learned my boundaries quickly.

I was her pet. I slept on a mat on the floor in her opulent bedroom. I ate the scraps from her plate after she finished her meals. I cleaned her home, washed her clothes, and responded to "Ethan" or "it" or whatever name she chose for me that day. The humiliation was a constant, grinding weight on my soul. My life was a monotonous cycle of servitude and silent suffering.

The physical torment continued, unpredictable and cruel. A kick for being too slow. A slap for looking at her the wrong way. The collar was her favorite tool, a simple button press that could induce breathtaking pain for any perceived infraction. My body became a roadmap of her rage, covered in faint scars and old bruises.

Then, she brought Mark Peterson home.

He was everything I wasn't. Tall, handsome, with a confident smile and a loud, charming laugh that filled the sterile spaces of the penthouse. He was a successful businessman, she told me, someone reputable and strong. She introduced him to me as her husband.

"This is Ethan," she said to Mark, her tone dismissive, like she was pointing out a piece of furniture. "He helps around the house."

Mark looked me up and down, a smirk playing on his lips. It wasn't a friendly look. It was predatory. He saw the collar around my neck. He saw the way I kept my eyes fixed on the floor. He understood the dynamic immediately. And he relished it.

"Good to know," Mark said, his eyes glinting. "It's important to have good help."

His presence added a new, suffocating layer to my torment. He and Sarah were disgustingly affectionate in front of me, their laughter and whispered secrets a constant reminder of what I had lost, of the life we were supposed to have.

The nights were the worst.

"Get over here," Mark would command, his voice slick with smug authority.

He would make me kneel on the floor by their bed. I had to watch them. Every touch, every kiss, every intimate moment was a performance for my benefit. I would stare at a spot on the wall, trying to dissociate, to send my mind somewhere else, anywhere else. But Mark wouldn't allow it.

"Watch, you piece of filth," he'd snarl, and if my eyes wavered, Sarah would let him use the remote for the collar. A sharp jolt would snap my attention back to the scene in front of me.

One night, it escalated.

"I have a gift for you, honey," Mark said to Sarah, pulling a small, sharp object from his bedside table. It was a blade, a small carving knife.

Sarah propped herself up on her elbows, a genuine, cruel smile spreading across her face. "What is it?"

"A little reminder," Mark said, his eyes locked on me. "So he never forgets what he is."

He got out of bed and loomed over me. He grabbed my arm, his grip like iron.

"Hold him still," he said to Sarah.

She didn't hesitate. She scrambled over and held my other arm, her touch cold and firm. I struggled, a primal fear rising in my throat, but they were too strong. Mark pressed the tip of the blade to the skin of my forearm.

It was cold, then it was a line of fire. He carved slowly, deliberately. I bit my lip to keep from screaming, the coppery taste of blood filling my mouth again. I could feel the skin parting, the slow welling of blood.

He carved one letter at a time. C. R. I. M. I. N. A. L.

Tears streamed down my face, silent and hot. The pain was immense, but the humiliation was worse. To be branded like an animal, while the woman I once loved held me down.

When he was finished, my arm was a mess of blood and raw flesh.

Sarah looked at it, her eyes wide with a sick kind of excitement. She clapped her hands together, a sharp, jarring sound in the quiet room.

"It's perfect, Mark. Absolutely perfect," she said, kissing him deeply. "You deserve a reward for this."

She pulled away from him, her gaze flicking to me for a second, full of triumph and contempt.

"I'm booking us a trip," she announced. "A private jet tour of the islands. Just the two of us. A reward for my wonderful husband."

Mark beamed, pulling her back into his arms.

I knelt there, bleeding on their expensive rug, my world collapsing into a pinprick of pain and despair. The word "CRIMINAL" burned on my skin, a permanent declaration of my status in this hell.

That's when the idea took root. A desperate, final act of rebellion.

They were going on a private jet. A private jet with a complex control system. A system I knew I could hack.

If my suffering was all I had left, then I would choose how it ended. And I would take them with me.

A few days later, while they were packing, I found my opportunity. Sarah left her work laptop open for just a minute. It was all I needed. My fingers, clumsy from disuse but still remembering the old rhythms, flew across the keyboard. I found the flight plan, the jet's registration, its onboard network protocols. It was ridiculously easy. Their security was a joke.

I planted a backdoor, a tiny, invisible thread of code that would give me complete control once they were in the air.

The day of their flight, I was locked in the server room again. But this time, I wasn't just a prisoner. I had a purpose. I watched the flight tracker on a hidden terminal I had set up. I saw their jet take off, a tiny blip climbing into the sky.

I waited until they were over the ocean, a thousand miles from the nearest land.

It was time.

I took a deep breath and initiated the command sequence. My code burrowed into the jet's autopilot, overriding the pilots' controls. I sent the plane into a nosedive. On my screen, I could see the altitude dropping at an alarming rate.

This is it, I thought. It's finally over. A sense of calm washed over me.

But then, something unexpected happened. A new set of commands fought against mine. Someone on the plane was fighting back. The nosedive slowed, the plane trying to level out.

It was Sarah. It had to be. She was a brilliant cybersecurity expert. She had found my intrusion.

My screen flickered, and a live audio feed from the cockpit crackled to life. I could hear alarms blaring, the pilots shouting in confusion. And then I heard her voice, raw with panic, screaming not at the pilots, but at me, as if she knew I was listening.

"No! Ethan, stop! Don't you dare! Don't touch him!"

Her words hit me harder than any punch. Not "Don't crash the plane." Not "Don't kill us."

"Don't touch him."

She was talking about Mark. In that moment of absolute terror, her first instinct was to protect him.

I froze, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. Her frantic voice, her desperate plea to save the man who had tortured me with her blessing, shattered my resolve.

Why was she protecting him? Why did he matter more than her own life? The question burned in my mind as I watched her expertly regain control of the aircraft, her digital ghost fighting mine in the heart of the machine. I let her win. The plane leveled off, the blip on my screen resuming its steady course.

My escape was gone. And I was left alone in the cold, humming darkness, with nothing but her terrifying, incomprehensible words echoing in my ears.